THE STRICKEN YEARS
moment I am more overwhelmed than ever; more than ever I
doubt my resurrection, and I sweat blood and water to put my
signature to this missive, which I would not like to swear will
not be my last to you.’
The sickness continued a few days longer in its fearful progress,
until, at 2 o’clock on the morning o f the 19th January, 1865,
Pierre-Joseph Proudhon died in the arms of his wife and of his
friend, Amadee Langlois. He remained faithful to his principles;
on being asked if he wished for a priest, he refused and, turning
to Euphrasie, said: ‘I shall confess to you.’8
The news of Proudhon’s death brought a shock to the whole
democratic world o f Paris, and the day o f his funeral, the 23 rd
January, was, as Gustave Lefrangais remembered, ‘at once a sad
and a good day for the socialist revolutionaries.’ It manifested a
public grief which Proudhon himself would not have expected,
but it also became a spontaneous expression o f the rising spirit
o f revolt. Old friends and old rivals from the struggles of three
decades gathered by the hundred in the courtyard o f the house
or in the street outside, and comrades o f the ’48 who had not met
for many years exchanged their reminiscences o f prison and exile.
But, though the tried revolutionaries and the liberal journalists
were numerous, it was the anonymous working men of Paris
who made the bulk o f the great crowd o f six thousand that waited
in the Grande Rue to accompany Proudhon to his grave.
Just before the cortege was due to leave for the cemetery of
Passy, a curious incident happened, whose authenticity is attested,
not merely by legend, but also by Proudhon’s family and by
memoirists like Lefrangais.
‘Suddenly a drum resounded,’ Lefrangais recalls. ‘The sound
increased and grew near, and soon we saw a contingent of soldiers
approaching, with their colonel at the head. The same thought
invaded us all: the troops had been sent to disperse us and prevent
us from following the cortege. Immediately, with a spontaneous
movement, we closed our ranks and barred the way. Our looks
were anxious but resolved. The troops would have to retire or
march over our bodies. A terrible silence replaced the noise of
our conversations.